Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,33

home otherwise.”

McKittrick left a quarter hour later and Ingrid felt so restless she considered following her out the door—walking the dark summer streets for a while until she felt able to calm down. Instead she stepped out onto her roof terrace and drew the night air deep into her lungs. After three or four big breaths she pulled her cell from her pocket and called Svetlana.

“So, at least you listened to my message,” her mother said in place of a greeting.

Ingrid hadn’t. She didn’t even realize her mother had left one.

“What have you found out that we don’t already know from the TV?”

Ingrid relayed most of what Mike Stiller had told her. She didn’t mention the photograph.

“This girl must come see Kathleen.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Then I should go see her.”

Ingrid was regretting telling Svetlana as much as she had. “Please, Mom. You have to trust that I know what I’m doing with this. I’m working on something that’s going to help. I’ll let you know just as soon as I make some progress.”

“What? What are you working on? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ve told you as much as I can. More than I should have. You have to promise me you’ll tell Kathleen and no one else. What I’m doing is strictly unofficial. I could lose my job.”

At the other end of the line Svetlana made a grunting sound. As if Ingrid losing her job wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. She’d never thought much of Ingrid’s work at the Bureau.

“Is that it?” her mother asked after a long pause.

“There’s one more thing.” Ingrid hesitated. She wasn’t sure whether it was the fact she was asking her mother for a favor—something she’d managed to avoid since elementary school—or the thing she was asking for that was making her feel so damn uncomfortable. “I need you to send me some photographs of Megan. The most recent ones you have. Go to the copy shop and have someone scan them in for you. Then get Bob or Harry to email them to me, can you?”

“You think I don’t know how to scan and email? You think I need the neighbors’ help for something like this?”

Ingrid dug the fingernails of her right hand into the fleshy part of her palm. It was amazing how the most innocuous of statements could insult Svetlana, then how easily Svetlana’s indignation could upset Ingrid. Why wasn’t she immune to it by now? “Great, even better, you can do it yourself.”

“So, you’re finally admitting you’ve forgotten what your best friend looks like? You wouldn’t be having this trouble if you came back every year for the vigil at Kathleen’s.”

How could she deny what was true? “It’s for the investigation, not me personally.” As the words came out of her mouth she could plainly hear just how unconvincing they sounded.

“Oh sure.”

“Listen, I have to go—there’s someone at the door,” she lied. “I’ll call you again when I have news.” She ended the call and went back inside. Without thinking about it, a minute later she was pulling on her running shoes. Two minutes after than she was sprinting down Sutherland Road.

No matter what the time of day, the neighborhood she lived in always felt pretty safe, but even if it hadn’t, Ingrid knew she had the speed and skills to get herself out of trouble if she had to. It was something she’d forced herself to get good at after she lost Megan. She pushed her legs a little harder and pumped her arms a little faster, hoping to outrun the memories swarming in her head. Sometimes the technique actually worked.

Tonight it was futile.

She eventually returned to the apartment, her muscles exhausted, but her mind still racing. She went to bed, not hopeful she’d get any sleep, all too aware the alarm would wake her in less than four hours.

Amazingly, she did manage to finally drift off.

Only to be woken by angry banging on the apartment door just two hours later.

17

When Ingrid had asked Gurley exactly how he’d managed to get into her building he’d been evasive, mumbling something about the super letting him in. Except the building didn’t actually have staff on site twenty-four hours a day. Ingrid had decided to let it go, concentrating instead on selecting some suitable clothes to throw on when she couldn’t quite fully open her eyes.

“Are you drunk?” Gurley had asked when he saw the tequila and glasses on the kitchen counter. He dumped a large backpack by his feet. Its